


Grace Notes

by myownspark



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Home, Inspired by Music, Liam Payne - Freeform, Light Angst, Music, Project Home, ProjectHome2016, Sleepy Cuddles, The X Factor Era, Zayn Malik - Freeform, Ziam (friendship), fetus Ziam (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/pseuds/myownspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s week three of the X Factor live shows, and Liam is feeling lost after a tough rehearsal.  Zayn brings him back without a word. Just a bit of light angst and Ziam friendship fluff to celebrate #ProjectHome2016.  Based on the prompt “You’ll Never Feel Like You’re Alone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to gettingaphdinlarry for your thoughtful, detailed beta and your humor about everything (and I mean everything) else, and thank you so much to my favorite friend in the UK, hevab, for britpicking. xo and xo.

Liam is grateful for the dark. The sharp edges of the boys’ borrowed bedroom go muted in the shadows, where he curls in on himself toward the wall on the bottom bunk, earbuds turned way up.   It’s half five and the other lads must still be playing Nintendo or getting ready for dinner. He’d begged off, saying his head hurt and he’d be down later, but none of that was even a little bit true. It’s hard to admit to himself that he’s actually hiding, so he pushes the thought down behind “chilling” or “resting up.” He doubts anyone will come looking for him, or at least he hopes that he won’t be found. His eyes close and he gives himself over to the rhythmic, bumping bass sound in his ears.

It’s week three and they should be practicing, but the others have decided they need a break, which is fine actually, because Liam’s had just about enough of the constant noise and chatter. He’s not in the mood for Harry’s goofy sincerity either, for that matter, or Niall’s jumpy energy.  Then there’s Louis’ constant messing about and the rest’s hero worship of him, and Zayn’s … Zayn’s … right, well, let Zayn be the only person Liam wouldn’t tell off right now.

He hates this off-balanced, anxious feeling. It’s awfully new and completely alarming, making his teeth clench with nerves and dread. He has bumped up against it before, a bit in geography last spring or Mrs. Dalton’s science lab when they dissected the frog. But right now it’s scaring him shitless because for the first time ever it’s about performing. He wishes he could call his dad, because just what in the bloody hell is he supposed to do? One minute the judges are telling him to loosen up, to just be himself, to give the song his own spin. Then straightaway they are reminding him to be precise, to “hit the mark” and “sit tight in the pocket.” And all the while the boys are buzzing round, all gangly arms and raucous voices leap-frogging over each other, messing about with their jokes and pranks. As if they’re all here just to have a laugh.

Don’t they know? Don’t they remember that the gutting when you’re cut is like someone reaching through your ribs, ripping your heart from your lungs and throwing it to the ground? They stomp on it awhile until it’s pulp, then gather it all back up in a wet pile and put it back inside you, destroyed, leaving you to walk around with a gaping wound in your chest and blood on your shirt. Well, he’s already been through that twice, thanks. The first time it took him four days just to get his breath back. He’s not having it again. He crosses his arms and tucks his chin. Never have the stakes been so high, and never _ever_ has he been so unsure of what he’s doing.

It’s like this: he’s _always_ felt strongest when he’s singing. It’s been that way since he was a kid. He’s not even sure half the time where his voice comes from or how it finds its pitch, but when he’s performing he’s sure-footed, agile. It comes easy. Back in school he was the one with the most experience and by far the most talent, and even here now, all of the arrangements have him opening the song because he’s ace at attacking the first measure and hitting the pitch perfectly, setting the tone for the others. Didn’t Niall even tell him the other day how that saved them last week? Actually, haven’t all the boys told him that at one point or another, even Louis? But it’s different now, getting complicated. He recalls today’s disaster of a rehearsal with a frustrated grunt and turns his music up. He thought he could bolster the other boys, give them an advantage, or maybe just a firm foundation to stand on. But now even that is slipping.

No matter how lost he’s ever been, he’s always been able to depend on the notes on the page.  They’re a map that’s been plotted point by point to show him where he needs to go. That’s how he was taught years ago, way back in choir: The song is a document made of rhythm, pace, and key, the same every time, and the notes are its language. It is fixed. Finite. Secure.

He can’t forget how he had tried to embellish a song once, practicing for a performance at school. He’d felt so confident, so free in the song because he’d practiced it over and over and knew it like his own name. Then in dress rehearsal he forgot where he was and spun out a few measures in runs the way he would have in the shower, lilting with note changes and a minor break at the end. The whole rehearsal stopped dead. The director told him, in front of everybody, that it wasn’t his right. “The melody _is_ the song, Liam. If you didn’t write the song, the notes aren’t yours to change, are they now?” Chastened, he’d stuck fast to the song note for note after that, a new respect for songwriters born right then, and he had run home and written his first song before dinner that same night.

Here in One Direction, The Rules of the Game have changed, and Liam finds them incomprehensible. The song is now evidently a moving target, and it’s the boys’ job to chase it down.

Isn’t there a line? Isn’t there a code everybody understands, made up of the staff, beats and bars, tempo, and dynamics? It’s a map. You hold it in your hand. You read it and sing what’s there. But not so with Zayn, or Harry for that matter. For them the notes on paper might well just be a jumping off point, a suggestion, the first offer of a negotiation. It’s fucking annoying. He wants to scream at them, drag them over to his side. How is he supposed to harmonize with someone if they keep wandering outside the lines giving no clue as to where they’ll land? And Jesus, don’t they understand what they’re up against? They’re being picked apart, each measure scrutinized; they need to literally be _on the same page_. It’s enough to make him consider going back to singing by himself.

The thought pulls him up short and makes his eyes snap open, seeing nothing in the shadows.

Bugger that.

Yes, it’s been nerve-wracking. At times utterly exasperating.  Thing is though, when they’re on, when they’re in the zone and _on point_ , they glide through the song like they’re a five man crew in a shell skimming easily over a smooth glass river. They’re all pulling together, focused and hanging on each other’s every note, and it’s like nothing else.  All five of them are tenors, yes, although Liam suspects Harry will end up a baritone before it’s all over and done. But they sound nothing alike. There’s Harry with his rasp that everyone is mad for, and Niall just chucking full-bodied notes out easy as porridge. Louis’ tenor is so high it’s almost a soprano; it tends to go flat but rings pure like a bell when he can control it, giving Liam goosebumps. And Zayn. Liam has never heard a real live person sing the way Zayn can, heavy and light at the same time, his notes turning on the edge of a feather.

As for his own voice, it’s been described as “clean” and “solid,” which Liam has always understood to mean strong but pleasant, though on his bad days he takes it to mean “boring” and “common.” It could be more compelling, more interesting to listen to, he is sure of that. But it is consistent, at least, and dependable, and it has gotten him this far. Liam thinks it might serve them well precisely _because_ it can easily blend with the others, disappearing within the weave of the vibrations so it’s indistinguishable. That’s when the sum of their parts becomes something altogether brilliant.  The boys can feel it too, just like he can, the exact moment when the chord locks into place, because they all look around at once, their eyebrows lifting in surprise and grins shaping the notes that come out of their mouths.

No. He knows deep down there isn’t any going back to singing by himself. That just can’t happen. So.

He doesn’t hear the squeak of the door for his earbuds, and he misses the little breeze of someone approaching the bunk. But then the mattress is sinking, and Liam has to tighten up his thighs to stop his body from rolling backward. He feels the other side of the pillow crush too, and he can smell it then, that faint whisper of lemony hair wax and spicy deodorant. Liam pretends to be asleep even though he knows the charade is stupid – his earbuds are turned up so high Zayn can probably sing along to every word himself.

There is heat, and then he feels Zayn’s shoulder blade brush against his back for a second. Some adjustments and then Zayn settles, the mattress going still. His back must be curved like Liam’s, because they are touching in the middle.  Liam rolls his eyes at the wall. What in the hell?

Zayn is thin but solid, and this bed is tiny for two boys pushing five foot eight. Liam inches closer to the wall, and the heat at his lower back drops away. Honestly. A moment of peace would be nice. Just for a minute he’d like to think, work out a plan for tomorrow, figure out where he’s supposed to go from here. Damn this house with all of its people everywhere, always.  His thoughts turn to his bedroom back home, where he could be alone whenever he wanted. Then he can’t help but think of his sisters and his mum and dad.  They are so proud of him, counting on him, and he doesn’t care to think about what they’d do if he failed again, how they’d look at –

And what the fuck is this now, the mattress is sloping again underneath him, and he feels the whole warm length of Zayn’s back this time, pressing against his. Liam drops his jaw and tilts his head back over his shoulder, seeing just the edge of Zayn’s body in his white t-shirt in the dark. Jesus, seriously?

Liam lets out an irritated huff and moves again, shifting his torso away, making the mattress bounce. Shit, now he’s running out of room. Pretty soon he’s going to be pressed up flush against the wall. _For fuck’s sake,_ this bedroom has five fucking beds, four of which are empty at the moment, and Liam should just tell him to bugger off, leave him alone, go.

He should. He wants to. Mostly.

He thinks about it, considers how he should say it, but before he can make the words come Zayn is nudging slowly closer, the heat of his body closing in. The mattress doesn’t tilt this time, but rather rolls gently beneath them as Zayn moves.  First it’s the shoulder blade, then the wide plane at the middle, and finally their lower backs that touch. One last little shift of Zayn’s leg and then he is still, all except for the big breath Liam can feel him take right through his shirt.

Liam sighs heavily, blowing the air out of his cheeks. Fucking madness. This band. This lad. But.

The heat feels good.

Liam should feel blocked in, cramped, but he doesn’t. He feels … sheltered. The music is suddenly too loud, and he reaches up carefully to take his earbuds out. His shoulders shift against Zayn’s with the movement, but Zayn doesn’t stir. There. Quiet. Better. When Liam settles with his arms crossed in front of him, they lose contact at the shoulders.  It makes Liam feel cold there, unfastened, and he finds himself pushing back a little, repositioning, until he finds Zayn’s warmth again.

Liam holds his breath with a little cringe, as if bracing himself against the idea that what he’s just done will make Zayn pop up and rush out. His heart beats the seconds by nervously, and he tries to keep very still. Is this happening? The two of them just lying here, in the dark, away from everyone … having a bit of a … cuddle?

Maybe Zayn just wants somebody to talk to. That’s it, maybe he’s homesick or something, and wants to talk about his sisters, or his mum’s cooking. Or maybe it’s about the song and how truly awful it sounds right now, or the staging plan, or the rumor about what next week’s theme will be. Liam could tell him his idea about scrapping the song and starting over with something different. He’s got a few ideas, but it’s probably too late for that, and anyway, he doesn’t want the others to think he’s trying to tell them what to do.  

Liam can hear as well as feel Zayn’s even breathing; his back seems to broaden a little and push against him when he breathes in, and then recede with the exhale, the little _whoosh_ of his breath the only sound in the room. It feels relaxed and reassuringly even; it soothes Liam’s nerves with its simple rhythm. Liam can feel the fitful jumble of his thoughts start to get heavy and flat. He closes his eyes again, just to let Zayn have some time, and again he smells that fragrant mix of citrus and spice. It’s bringing him back to today’s rehearsal.

He’d been stood next to Zayn while his stomach churned and knotted, struggling over where to go with the song this next time through. They were working out the arrangement with Savan, trying to figure out which of their voices went with which phrasing, which one of them pronounced the lyrics the most pleasingly (“lads, it needs to be _accurate_ , but not _severe_ ”), whose tone lends itself to the longest notes, and, not least of which, who could be counted on to stay most on pitch. All of that left Liam’s sheet music a proper disaster, littered with scribbled and crossed out notes, arrows, circles, and underlining that no longer made sense.

Zayn’s hip bumped his when Liam got frustrated after a particularly messy go of it. Liam looked at him warily, seeing eyes that resembled those of a kind giraffe, curious and half-lidded with their long curving eyelashes.

“Breathe,” Zayn mouthed.

But Liam couldn’t understand.  He turned back to his music, trying hopelessly to find a foothold somewhere within his marked-up pages.

Zayn yanked the papers from him and replaced them with his own clean ones before Liam could complain, and turned to face him, his back to the other lads so they wouldn’t hear. “You’re not even breathing, man. Look,” Zayn teased lightheartedly. Liam did look, following Zayn’s finger as it tapped on the lead sheet. Rests. “Sing together, breathe together.” Their foreheads tilted closer as Zayn showed him the rests on the next page, pointing. “Here, and here, yeah?”

“I’m lost,” Liam admitted, his voice shakier than he wanted it to be.

“I know,” Zayn said with a shrug. “Everybody is. Forget about the notes for a sec. Where’re you going to breathe?”

It was a calming spell amidst the chaos. Liam looked down at the song as if for the first time. He’d been so caught up in the phrasing and complicated chord structure and everybody else’s note changes that he’d forgotten all about the parts where they’d be resting. The little rectangles and crochets jumped out at him, seated plainly on the bars. “Here,” he told Zayn, pointing. “And here. And there’s one here.” The song’s lopsided weight shifted into balance suddenly, and relief made the stiffness in Liam’s shoulders and neck unwind.

“Everything alright there lads?” Savan had asked.

“Yes, we’re set,” Zayn had answered, searching over Liam’s face to make sure was true.

The memory loosens Liam’s throat and opens up his lungs. He inhales deeply for the first time in four hours, and it feels good. The song hadn’t improved much after that, not by a long shot. But Liam’s performance had; looking back on it now, he remembers how his next solo seemed to flow from a different place altogether, rising up effortlessly from his heart.

The rise of Zayn’s back becomes the rise of his too, slow and calm, and Liam tries to time his breathing to fit. He waits to feel the slight drop of Zayn’s arm to know when the exhale is coming, then anticipates the inhale after that little pause in between. They lie there and breathe, and Liam’s last lingering worries about what to do, how to fix it, and what will happen to them all fall away. With it goes the last bit of stiffness holding up his back and he lets himself melt. Zayn is sturdy behind him, holding him up. They are connected, their breathing tying them together just as it did in the rehearsal room.

Sing together, breathe together.

Eyes that could see nothing a few minutes ago see it all laid out in front of him, clear in the dark. Liam isn't alone. His dreams, the precious, priceless ones he’s worked for all this time aren’t just his anymore, they belong to Zayn too, and Harry and Louis, and Niall. This time he doesn’t have to carry it all by himself. His boys are with him and they are going to sing together, pull together in that boat for as long as it takes to get them to the very end.  He wants nothing more than to be the one they can lean on, too.

They are down there somewhere and Liam wants to go get them. He wants to take them by the shoulders and tell them what he figured out. He wants to listen to Harry tell his long, meandering stories. He wants to let Niall play the drums on his thigh when he sits next to him, and he wants to get swept up in Louis’ next caper. Being with Louis always makes him feel important somehow. More than all of that he wants to sing with them. He wants to stand with them shoulder to shoulder and let his voice disappear into theirs, bigger and better than it is on its own. Sing together. Breathe together.

“Zayn,” Liam whispers.

There’s no movement, just the same in and out, level breathing.  Well, shit.

“Zayn, let’s go,” Liam says a bit louder.

Or not, since Zayn’s fallen asleep. Oh, for god’s sake, it’s madness. These boys. _His_ boys.

Zayn pushes against him in a stiff stretch. “Hmmm,” he half-growls, not turning over. His arms move, and Liam thinks he might be rubbing his eyes. His voice is a grumble that Liam can feel thrumming against his back. “You ready?”

Liam smiles to himself, excited to go down and search out his boys in this crowded, hectic house that has just now started to feel like home. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Week three was a tough week for One Direction - they did end up having to change their song at the last minute - but they pulled through.  
> Come say hello on [ Tumblr](http://myownsparknow.tumblr.com).


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